Does anyone know anything about Zhu Chengyu?

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Give the traveler a light like a bean.

Give the wanderer a greeting from his hometown.

Give the lost man a glass of wine.

The ladder climbed by the pursuers in the teaching circle first.

Give people who have experienced vicissitudes a warm platform.

Give a teahouse to the lost who are looking for life.

The battlefield of newborn calves.

Give people who have just entered this world a development stage.

Man's grace in the rain at night.

Give a feminine lady an escape through a lonely boat.

Give vulgarity the elegance of Chun Xue.

The popularity of beauty for elegant people.

1,200 seafood for casting nets.

Give the sower ten thousand seeds.

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Selected works of Zhu Chengyu

Published by Liu on May +0 1 14: 53: 00, 2006.

The fragrance of Liuhua

Zhu Chengyu

Because of work reasons, I temporarily rented a house near the unit. Although the house is simple, it is elegant, and the windowsill is full of all kinds of flowers. I think the landlord is a flower lover, but for some reason, the house has been empty for too long, and the flowers have not been taken care of for a long time. They hung their heads in dismay, ignoring the sun and their new owners.

I'm not interested in flowers and plants, so I want to throw them away. My wife stopped me and said, "The environment here is not good. Raising a few pots of flowers can make the air fresher. " My wife is a lover of flowers and grass. She made some soft fertile soil and transplanted flowers into a new environment. Under her careful care, the dying flowers gradually came back to life. I don't think it's necessary to leave these flowers to others. My wife disagrees with this view. She said that she would like to thank the landlord for leaving these flowers, so that she has a good mood. The first thing my wife does when she opens her eyes every day is to wash her face and dress up for the flowers. My wife is going out for a few days. When she left, she specifically told me to take good care of those flowers. When she called me every night, she asked, "Did you water the flowers?" "Is it blooming" and so on? I heard that my ears are callused. However, my wife has to take care of these flowers in her precious spare time. However, they are so delicate, a pot of nameless flowers began to languish again, drooping their heads and ignoring me and the sunshine. I was afraid that my wife would blame me, so I secretly threw it into the trash can. When my wife came back, she saw that her flowers were full of energy and high spirits, so she rewarded me with sweet words. After a few seconds, her wife found that a pot of flowers was missing, and she choked her neck and cried, "What about the pot of bluegrass?" I wanted to lie that I gave it away, but my wife's eyes were aggressive. Like a child who has done something wrong, I dare not look into her eyes. My wife found this pot of flowers in the garbage. Surprisingly, the potted flower not only didn't die, but also blossomed brilliantly. My wife rummaged through the garbage carefully. Fortunately, it smiled in front of us intact. "I thought ..." I said hesitantly, "It can't live." "intentional planting of flowers, unintentional planting of willows", the wife suddenly sighed with emotion. "People will wilt, not to mention flowers. It's called blue grass, which is as energetic as grass and can adapt to the surrounding environment quickly. Even in the garbage, brilliant flowers can bloom. "

My wife may have been careless at the moment, but I heard another meaning: my wife is a sanitation worker and sweeps the long and wide street before dawn every morning. I once thought about changing her job through relationships, but she refused. "I'm used to it," my wife always says. "Watch yourself sweep the streets clean and make your heart clean and spacious." "My wife is really like that pot of bluegrass!" I think. The setting sun dyed the western sky red. In the brilliant sunset, I quietly watched my wife standing in front of the flowers, and suddenly thought of such a beautiful poem as "Falling Flowers Independent, Swift Qi Fei". I think people who love flowers are beautiful, and people who love life are beautiful! I kind of like these flowers. Now I know their names, their joys and sorrows. Cactus and xianjian like drought, and sunny places are their paradise. Hydrangea, butterfly plums, thorn roses and lanterns live in peace, and those crowded corners have become their "five-star hotels". My wife and I take good care of them according to their habits. Because of these flowers, our windowsill is full of vitality. Bees can't resist the temptation of flowers, drooling in pairs, passionate butterflies in pairs ... put a few pots of flowers in life, the sun will always be attached to lingering, and put a few pots of flowers in marriage, and love will always be fragrant and pleasant.

We're moving away again because of work. Before leaving, my wife found a board to stand in front of the flowers and wrote on it: Please take care of these flowers!

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Spring grass scattered chapters

Enjoy the coolness of life in silence.

About: Zhu Chengyu's Works

Liu Defu (tourist) comments at 7: 12-25+07:00 in 2006.

Fallen leaves are tired butterflies.

The setting sun is getting older and the west wind is getting tighter.

When the leaves fall, autumn falls on the fallen leaves. When autumn comes, people lose weight. With the sadness of autumn.

But the golden leaves are not sad. They know how to comfort themselves in the autumn wind. They know that they are asleep, waiting for a new awakening.

Falling leaves have the advantage of falling leaves, so you don't have to fall into the entanglement of love. Fallen leaves have the beauty of fallen leaves, and they are tired butterflies. I even feel the leaves crying softly.

At that moment, my heart trembled slightly, like a stick among many fallen leaves.

I saw my hometown, saw the endless old trees in front of my hometown, and saw the smoke swaying because of the return of wanderers. For feet far away from home and wings flying to the sky, cooking smoke is a rope that can never be broken. Like a big tree at the intersection, its branches point to many roads, but there is only one starting point. Everyone who left the village took away a green leaf, but left one root behind.

I saw the cliff in my hometown, the stones on the cliff, competing with the flowers to bloom, and the sheep and clouds on the cliff competing to float.

I saw my roof. There is ice everywhere in winter, and birds are singing in summer. A string of red peppers is considered a fire in poor days. I watched sparrows flying on the roof and always lived in harmony with the farmers. This is the roof, the heart that has been lingering on the road.

I saw my mother. In order to prevent us from freezing in winter, she picked up the branches of dead trees, just like decorating those broken days. Then, put the warmth in our hands. Mom's firewood pile is getting higher and higher, but mom is getting shorter and shorter. The red and yellow flame lit by mother under the kitchen pit has become the only shoulder we can rely on at night and the only hand we can hold.

Fallen leaves come back to their roots. Am I old? We spend a lot of time striving for wealth, but little time enjoying it. We have bigger and bigger houses, but less and less live at home. When we came back from the moon, we found that our neighbors were difficult and conquered the outside world, but we knew nothing about our inner world.

Travellers, what makes you invisible and anonymous? What brings you somewhere else? Autumn is like this, shaking off leaves and hanging people's thoughts on the branches. It's time to go back and see the big tree that gave birth to me, green because of growth, yellow because of maturity, and my mother sleeping in the fallen leaves. Mother, my hurried steps are your dense stitches. Mom, I'm going back with my tattered luggage, and I'm going back when I find heaven.

Layers of fallen leaves were laid on the way home. I want to walk on the warm carpet to see my mother. My mother is also like this fallen leaf, falling slowly from the brilliant branches. It's just that she didn't wake up again

In this world, it is not the house that can hold people, nor the road that can take people away. Time can't stretch out a hand to catch the past clouds for you. If everything can be done again, mom, I will pick up your smile, footsteps and wind, make lamp oil with your love, and make twists with your goodness. I will light it and keep it in my heart, and I will never forget the way home.

It's cold, the leaves of the tree have fallen, and the tree is very close to me. I seem to hear them slowly solidifying.

It's cold, and they stand in a row, with a dull pain in their secrets. But the leaves fell and covered everything.

When my mother died, my heart lost its support and I suddenly felt that there was air leakage everywhere. But the strong wind has been blowing, blowing the dust around my hometown clean. My small hometown is wrapped in autumn.

There is a tree in front of my mother's grave, which is a poem I wrote to my mother. Every autumn, leaves fall in succession, covering mother's grave tightly. Those fallen leaves that groan slightly in the wind, from a distance, are like a group of tired butterflies, quietly gathering the beautiful moments of life: a blush, an oath, or a simple sigh.

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About: Zhu Chengyu's Works

Quiet (tourist) comments 2006- 12-24 8:59:00.

The fallen leaf is a tired butterfly, probably the most beautiful prose I have seen in these years, with extraordinary details. Attracted by the topic, reading the whole article has a hearty aesthetic feeling, and there are many philosophical words and full and delicate sincere feelings in the article.

-Greetings

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Comment by ldf (tourist) on May 22nd, 2006 19: 38: 00.

Poetic firelight

Zhu Chengyu

Fire comes from the center of the room, which is the heart of the poor this winter.

Fire is like azaleas when I look up at spring.

The fire from the night covered the walls of the poor and drove away all the cold that tried to enter through the gap.

It echoes the appearance of the moon outside, creating a wonderful dialogue:

The moon said, I have transparent fingers, and I never hide the light green luster of a grass.

Fire said, I only have reckless enthusiasm, and I am willing to dry up in order to drive away the cold.

The moon said, "My fingers are stupid. I never catch anything I touch."

Fire said, my tentacles are everywhere. I want to catch a cold and break it violently.

The moon said, I have soft fingers, and flowers are rings put on me by the earth.

The fire said, I can only reflect the smiling faces of the poor and let them have a warm pillow.

Firelight, dancing in the winter of MINUS 20 degrees, enchanting posture makes the poet covet.

The fire kept a secret promise for me: I will never see Andersen who planted countless fruit trees and a big garden in my dream again.

He used the ugly duckling to arouse people's pursuit of a better life, and lit the lantern of human truth, goodness and beauty with the last match.

Shortly before his death, Andersen said to a young writer, "I paid a huge price for my fairy tales, even an incalculable price." I refused my happiness for fairy tales and missed such a period of time. At that time, despite how powerful and brilliant the imagination was, it should still give way to reality. "

This is a summary of his bumpy love life. /kloc-at the age of 0/7, Andersen fell in love with the translator's daughter, but other family members died one after another, and the girl was unhappy all day. Finally, her boat burned down in the Atlantic Ocean, and Andersen was heartbroken and wrote poems to mourn. At the age of 25, Andersen fell in love with a rich girl and was abandoned. Later, on a trip, a rich girl fell in love with Andersen, but Andersen was already immersed in a fairy tale. He said that my love was in a fairy tale, and I rejected her, but Andersen missed her all his life. 40-year-old Andersen met Swedish singer Linde, who always regarded him as a "dear brother". Although they had a good relationship, they both lived a life of traveling and never got married until they were old. 1875, at the age of 70, he died alone, without the happy ending in his fairy tale-"live happily ever after".

Fire is full of warmth when it climbs the face of the poor.

It jumped up and heated the whole stove. Like lips full of passionate words, like a chest full of infinite enthusiasm.

It was a dark night, people sat still and the fire jumped on the wall. This is a beautiful night, people are forgetting, and the fire reminds people of their own weight.

By the fire, I said to my daughter:

"Now the sun rises from the sea. The sun shone softly and warmly on the cold foam, and the little mermaid didn't feel extinct. She saw the bright sun, and countless transparent and beautiful creatures flew over her head at the same time. Through them, it can see the white sails on the ship and the colorful clouds in the sky. Their voices are harmonious music ... "

By the fire, I said to my daughter:

"'grandma!' The little girl cried. Ah! Please take me away! I know, as soon as this match goes out, you will disappear, and you will disappear like that warm stove, that beautiful roast duck and that happy Christmas tree! So she quickly polished the rest of the whole string of matches, because she really wanted to keep grandma ... "

By the fire, I said to my daughter:

"Every tree and every flower has a name, and each flower represents a person's life; These people are still alive, some in China, some in Britain and scattered all over the world. ..... but the sad mother bent down to listen to the heartbeat of the smallest plants. In these countless flowers, she could hear her child's heartbeat ... "

The fire is not a heating pipe surging about three meters underground in the city, but a free bird, which is responsible for connecting spring.

It does not compete with electric lights. It only sings in the dark when the poor have laid out their dreams, so that the night has a heart.

When this heart fails, I always try to save it. A fist-sized fire was carefully preserved by me as a kindling, and it must control its burning effectively. I added coal to it bit by bit, and finally saw that resurrection and a single spark could start a prairie fire, which made me experience a life process.

Facing its warm chest, I lit a cigarette and greedily sucked the fire. The fire quickly rushed into my heart from the stove.

Firelight, catching the wind and catching shadows on my wall, searching for everything in the past, like the shadow play I liked when I was a child, brought me imagination and warm longing for the future.

I can't forget the humble son of an alcoholic washerwoman. He told me so many wonderful and sad stories. On this white wall, the fire keeps turning, but no matter how it turns, it is always the shadow of Andersen. He told me: there will be snow in life and green grass in life; There are smiling faces and crying faces; There are lucky collars and cruel clutches.

The fire will eventually gather into the sun in the winter morning, and the yolk-like sun will eventually ignite the poor people's imagination of warmth. Sure enough, at the end of the dream, I saw a boy and a girl bypass the cemetery and walk forward with a smile. There is a gate in front, which is the gate of the sun. When it opens, the world is red.

No one knows that the red between heaven and earth was lit by a small fire at night. It makes me believe that those who go out this winter are destined to bear the cold of life, and those hearts ignited by fire are destined to get the warmth of the whole spring.

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Comments by Liu Defu +0 1 15: 02: 00 in May 2006.

Give pain a flowing outlet.

Zhu Chengyu

Dante wrote in the thirteenth song of the Divine Comedy, "Hobbit birds feed on his leaves, give him pain, and give him an outlet for pain ..." Physical pain is used to release inner pain, and the depth of pain can be seen.

In Guatemala, there is a bird named Rosapo, which has to call for seven days and seven nights to lay an egg. Because there was no midwife to deliver the bird, the dystocia girl had to cry bitterly all night. But it is precisely because of these seven painful days that the eggshell became hard, and the little Shiva became harder after hatching. This is a healthy tomorrow for a child whose mother has suffered for seven days, and the thorough mourning is that Shiva is releasing the physical pain in another way.

Compared with this bird called Rosapo, mothers are much happier now. Humans have midwives. Humans can have caesarean section, and they can hear the cry of the child falling to the ground without great pain. However, this painless delivery will leave some regrets. It is far from touching to hear a child crying after experiencing the pain of heartbreaking, and it is far from being proud of being a mother at this time. Tears at this time are really "painful and happy" tears.

I know a middle-aged man, as black as an iron tower. He is a music teacher. In an unknown school, he taught elementary school students the most basic knowledge of music theory and led the children to sing childish nursery rhymes. In one classroom after another, he carried an accordion that had been used for many years and flew happily like a bee. It's really funny when childish songs come out of the chest of such a big man, generate. His students are so sincerely in love with this pure teacher as they are. They are happy and carefree.

Until one day, the students saw an unimaginable scene: the music teacher led a big boy taller than himself, blowing colorful bubbles on the playground. The big boy was seventeen or eighteen, but he grinned, and his face was full of the happiness of three or four-year-old children, which was strange and different.

The oldest boy is the son of a music teacher. When he was born, he was also a lovely child, fat and pink in vain. When he was a toddler, the music teacher accompanied his son with notes. However, after children grow up to three or four years old, their physical development is getting stronger and stronger, but their intellectual steps are stagnant. Few parents will calmly face this situation-children are born with mental retardation, and their intelligence level is always only three or four years old.

The handsome and tough music teacher was immediately drained of water after learning the result. But he has to face a son who didn't have fun until he was three or four years old. As a father, when he bleeds from time to time in his heart, he has to make that child as happy as other children.

It is impossible for outsiders to know how much the music teacher has paid for this and how much effort other dads have put into it. However, even after a day of class, I am very tired and angry with disobedient students. As long as the music teacher looks at his children, his eyes will be full of warm flowers.

In the days when mentally retarded children grow up happily, music teachers are also happy to face all this. Some people say that he has cried countless times, but his smiling face will always rise with the sunrise; The students said that when the music teacher led them to sing, his eyes would slowly fill with tears, and then he would stand alone in the corridor for a while. When he comes back, he will open his arms and enthusiastically say to his students, "Come on, children, let's sing ode to joy again!" "

The music teacher's heart was painful, but he found an outlet to let the pain flow. He is like a rubber tree that has to bear everything and sew up the wound every day, constantly releasing the inner pain with love.

An ancient Greek poet said, "I have countless cracks and loopholes everywhere." This is the most powerful interpretation of tragedy. Tragedy is to open the wound for people to see. The water that flows through life and leaks through life can make wine, intoxicate people, wake up the world and wash their hearts. These pains make the body full of holes, but sublimate the soul.

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Comments by Liu Defu+0115: 01:00 in May 2006.

Flowing like water

Recommended: ★★★★★★ Author: Zhu Chengyu

Life should flow peacefully. If you want to run faster than the wind, you lose your straw hat. If you want to catch up with God, you will lose your mind. The advantages of walking are: it allows us to get close to every leaf seriously and find that the leaves are trembling happily; Get close to every flower and know the secret of flower shyness. Listen carefully to the "tick-tock" of time, as if it were raining, as if making a long poem with Kubinashi rhyme.

A quiet life is a kind of poetic reading. All the days add up to a book. I read carefully and write respectfully. Some days will become wonderful and gorgeous chapters, and some days will become fleeting scenery; Some days are the romance of bloom, and some days are the silence of the leaves; Some days are sunny, and some days are freezing; Some days are warning words and standard words, while others are simple punctuation marks and symbols of attachment. No matter how profound and simple this book is, I will turn it over devoutly, just like turning every page of the Bible.

When I can still look forward to and recall, the water of my life is flowing. Holding Proust's Memories of Time Past, I sailed from morning till midnight. No noise, no interference. When the dead dust is peeling off from the body and soul, how many people think that dust has piled up a grave behind them! Only running water can erase it from the earth, leaving no trace. For example, erase the mistakes we made in our exercise books.

If a hot and bright light bulb can make the night burn faster, then I would rather light a candle and let the plants in the dark tell their growing troubles with tears. The growth of candles is constantly disappearing, and finally it condenses into a pool of tears, like regret, like repentance. Lev shestov of Russia mentioned in his Ode to No Foundation that philosophers praise the peace of mind and regard it as the noblest and most valuable goal of our existence, but in this way, animals should be our ideal, because nothing can be better than them in terms of peace and no waves. We might as well go to see sheep or cows grazing. They neither recall the past nor look forward to the future. They live completely in the present, and as long as they have a good pasture, they can be completely satisfied. People are people after all, and people's hearts can never achieve plant-like peace. People have quarrels, people have countless troubles, people have to look for jobs everywhere to support their families, people have to do everything possible to make money, people have to live decently, and people have to leave a good reputation after death ... pots and pans, being laid off, being romantic, sleeping. When people walk in this world, they will always leave behind figures, either majestic or humble, vivid or blunt, full of wisdom or ignorance, or full of fragrance or vicissitudes of life ... People's desires and vanity lead to a black hole of repentance. How much desire and vanity a person has in his life will probably lead to how much debt. The mental journey of modern people is probably the most difficult one. From one heart to another, we can only "wash it with clear water for three times, boil it in alkaline water for three times, and marinate it in salt water for three times" (a word from Tolstoy). This road can move from noisy to quiet, from turbid to clear, from complex to simple.

"... I don't want to surge, I just want to flow quietly. After the writer Er Yuehe became famous, he couldn't write with peace of mind because of the frequent interruptions of reporters, so he had to send out such feelings. I don't know how many people who pursue fame and gain can be ashamed of the mood of February River. Mr. Qian Zhongshu's life is also a heavy fence for media reporters. He just doesn't want to be divorced from ordinary people's lives, to do things calmly and to be a man with peace of mind.

What flows like water is the life of ordinary people. I repeat almost the same things every day-eating, sleeping, going to work and getting off work. There will be some happy ripples in this quiet life, such as the bonus issued by the unit. Today, the weather is fine, the bloom in the yard has fallen and a little pigeon has hatched. Flowing like water is a life full of love, which has a tearing emotion with every leaf and flower. For example, a few pieces of candy brought back by dad to his children, such as a mother's finger pricked by a needle, such as the sound of the piano on the ruins, and the singing of the poor.

I hope the train at dawn can slow down, although the destination is the throne, the scepter, the palace with gorgeous carpets and heaven. I still hope the train can slow down. Let me read those kind backs carefully, touch those touching fish, and let them moisten the feelings of modern people in my pocket.

Take off the coat of my soul and I will flow quietly like water.

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Comments by Liu Defu +0 1 14: 58: 00 in May 2006.

The dew of life

Zhu Chengyu

A drop of water around the girl merged into a rain, which poured down and washed away the steps leading to heaven. The rain stopped and the pigeons came back. Snow-white pigeons seem to melt little by little in the sun. It suddenly flew, shook off a few hairs in the pure air and landed gently on a soul that had just been extinguished.

I think of that morning when dew was everywhere. The girl took a leaf and gently sucked the dew on it. On a foggy morning, I seem to see an out-of-touch spirit. I dare not make a sound because I am afraid that the noise of this world will disturb her.

I looked at her deeply and looked at the kind dew around her.

She moved, just stroking her hair with her hand. I thought she was flying away. Look, how light her feathers are!

She saw me and smiled at me.

"Murphy, are you an elf?" I rubbed my eyes and asked.

She smiled brightly and immediately led the sunshine here. The sun spread out and competed with her for dew.

"If only I were really an elf. So when I leave, my mother won't be so sad. " She suddenly became sad.

"Go? Where are you going? "

"Go to heaven, mom and dad don't tell me what's wrong, but I know I'm terminally ill. They said that as long as I insist on drinking dew every morning, I will get better. For a year, I always come here before the sun comes out. If I come late, the dew will be drunk by the sun. " She regained her cheerful mood.

I can't imagine that this beautiful spotless girl is terminally ill. What a beautiful cloud she is in the world! She reminds me of the birth of a baby, so pure and peaceful. At the moment, her pure soul is flying against the grass, and she can't believe that there is a god of death chasing her behind her.

This is the last day of my seven-day holiday, and my life has become extremely lively because of the last day of the seven-day holiday. I'm here to escape my troubles, hoping to beat a rumor with a seven-day holiday. Now, I feel that all my troubles have been washed away by dew, and I feel the freshness and joy of life. The girl said, "I have lived six months longer than the time of death predicted by the doctor." I created a myth. Why am I unhappy? "

The girl finally went, poetically went to heaven to date God. If the girl's optimism is used to explain her death, I think she will definitely say, "If you go late, the steps leading to heaven will be covered with moss."

Facing death so calmly is another myth created by girls.

I came to her grave and sprinkled the dew I collected drop by drop. I want this drop of water beside the girl to escort her pure soul to God's garden safely.

At that moment, I seemed to see a girl's angelic figure, a smiling face that never faded, but I was sad. Now I know that to wake up my faded years, all I need is her lips and gently call my name before the night passes.

She responded to me! Under the clear sky, a cloud floated leisurely, bringing a rain. I know those raindrops are her words of comfort to me. What reason do I have to escape from the troubles that follow in the world?

Moreover, the dialogue between us has never stopped.

I asked her, "Why is the sun always fresh every morning?"

She replied, "Because the sun washes her face with dew every morning."

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Comments by Liu Defu +0 1 14: 56: 00 in May 2006.

Birds are God's guests.

Zhu Chengyu

In winter, it seems that only shivering crows can be seen, covered with thick snow, walking from tree to tree, picking up all the cold branches and refusing to live.

It reminds me of my mother and a time of aging. Its voice is hoarse because of persuasion, and its eyes are darker than night because of searching.

The crow who accompanied me through many roads gradually lost weight, like a drop of ink, quietly sucked dry by boundless snow.

One morning, one of my blue pigeons died, and the stiff body condensed into a figurine on the eaves. At noon, the sunshine melts the snow on its head bit by bit, flowing through its sad eyes and delicate beak, like tears when crying.

The pigeon is dead, but its eyes are still fixed on the sky.

I have never lost the memory of this weak pigeon in my life. It once spread its wings freely in the sky, once wove songs in the sky, and once asked a teenager to write his first poem on a melancholy evening because he heard the whistle of pigeons.

It finally came, holding the cuffs of spring, forcing the cold to give way.

Finally, it came, a sharp pair of scissors cut off the last umbilical cord related to winter, and we were born.

Swallows with proud breasts, shining with dark green luster, walked casually through my room, and I felt that happiness was tiptoeing at my door.

Swallows fly lower and closer to people's hearts. It tells me that bloom is warm in spring in my hometown.

Sparrows are the most common group of talkative women this summer.

They gathered in a big tree in small groups for a small matter and dispersed in a hubbub for some small rumors. They never migrate and stay at home wholeheartedly, putting soft grass and happy sunshine into their nests. I closed the window gently, not wanting to disturb them to tidy up their home. The smoke on the roof was straight and straight, and I heard their happy quarrel.

Compared with other birds, sparrows spend more time squatting on the ground and carefully picking up their lives.

How many cannabis plants are there on that tree?